Iain Banks: The Business

'It is in the trunk.'

'Fine. If you could just open it, I'll take it.'

'Where is your car? I will drive to it.'

'That's okay.'

'No, please.'

'Right, okay. It's over there.'

'Please, get in.'

'It's just across the road, Hans. I'll jay-walk again.'

'But this is not a place for crossing. See. Please, you will get in.'

'Hans. There's no need. I'll walk. Okay?'

'But here it is forbidden.'

'You okay, Kate?'

'Fine. Fine so far. Hans, please either open the trunk or get in the car and chuck a U-ie.'

'Yeah! Do as she says, Hans!'

'I don't think he can hear you, Luce.'

'What is a U-ie, please?'

'U-turn. It's a U-turn, Hans. Perform a U-turn.'

'That is forbidden here too. See.'

'Jeez. Anal or what? That guy needs therapy. Let me talk to him, Kate.'

'Quiet, Luce. Please. Hans, look —'

'Oh, you want me to stay on the line but you want me to shut up, right?'

'Right. Hans. Could I have my luggage?'

'Please, you will get in, I will to the other side of the street drive, and all is good.'

'Did I hear that right? Did he really the verb at the end of the sentence put? Well, haw-haw-haw!'

'Luce —'

'Please.'

'No, Hans.'

'But why not, Ms Telman?'

'I don't want to get into the car.'

'You don't want to get into the car?'

'That's right.'

'You tell him, kid.'

'Why do you not want to get into the car?'

'Yeah, come to think of it, why don't you want to get into the car?'

'Oh, for fuck's sake. Torture and death can't be any worse than this. Okay, Hans, you win. I'll get in. We're going over there. The green Audi hatchback. Okay?'

'Yes, I see. Thank you.'

'You got into the car?'

'I'm in the car.'

'What's happening now?'

'Hans is getting into the driver's seat. He's taking off his cap. He's putting it on the front passenger's seat. He's putting the car into Drive. He's checking his mirrors. We're driving off. We're in the traffic now. We're heading down the street.'

'Cool. Any nice shops?'

'Will you shut up?…We're going quite a long way down the street. We haven't done a U-turn yet. I'm starting to get worried. Hold on. Hans?'

'Yes, Ms Telman?'

'Why haven't we turned round yet? The car's back there.'

'It is forbidden. The signs. See. It is forbidden. Up here we may turn. I will turn there.'

'Okay, okay.'

'Now what's happening?'

'We're slowing down. We're turning up a side-street…we're turning down another street…and another…and back on to the main street. Yeah, heading back towards the Audi. Looks cool. Looks cool.'

'What fucking Audi?'

'My hire car. Right. We're here. I'm getting out. Thank you. No, I can…Ah, thank you, thank you. Vielen dank.'

'Ms Telman.'

'Thank you, Hans. Wiedersehen.'

'Goodbye, Ms Telman.'

'Yes, thank you. Drive carefully. 'Bye… Luce?'

'Yeah?'

'Thanks.'

Call me really fucking paranoid, but I left the hire car at Montreux, took a taxi to Lausanne and used cash to buy a ticket on a TEE to Milano via the Simplon tunnel (good dinner, pleasant talk to a terribly camp and charming textile designer and his gruffly butch partner; relaxed). Cash again to buy a tourist ticket on a delayed Alitalia 747 to Delhi via Cairo; upgraded once we were in the air using my non-company Amex (stewardesses less glamorous and more efficient than last Alitalia flight a few years ago; coffee smelled tempting, but avoided). First so empty I could have got up to any amount of shenanigans, if there had been a willing partner. Slept — instead — very well indeed.

In Delhi, going through the formalities, I tried calling Stephen. The phone just rang and rang and rang, the way phones do when the person at the other end is there, hasn't got their answer-machine or voicemail switched on, but can see your number and name on their phone's display and just doesn't want to talk to you. 'Stephen, don't do this to me,' I whispered. 'Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone…' But he didn't.

I tried elsewhere.

'Mr Dessous?'

'Telman? What in the hell is going on?'

'You tell me, Jeb.'

'Was it that bastard Hazleton? Is he the Couffabling son-of-a-bitch you were talking about?'

'I really couldn't say, Jeb.'

'He's called an EBM for Wednesday in Switzerland. Know anything about that?'

'Sorry, Jeb, what's an EBM?'

'Extraordinary Board Meeting. Shows how often we have them if somebody like you doesn't know what they are.'

'Good.'

' "Good"? What do you mean, "Good"?'

'It's good you're having an EBM.'

'Why, dammit?'

'Mr Hazleton may have a pleasant surprise for you all.'

'Oh? It isn't to get you kicked out, then? There's an ugly rumour you assaulted Adrian Puddinghead or whatever the hell he's called.'

'Poudenhaut. Actually it was more his car I assaulted.'

'What? What did you do?'

'I used a search engine.'

'Telman, will you just tell me what the hell is going on?'

'I'm taking up the post in Thulahn.'

'Good.'

'Not necessarily.'

'What does that mean?'

'I think the plan we have for Thulahn may be too radical. Too destructive.'

'Oh, you do, do you? Well, I'm sure we'll thank you for sharing those thoughts with us, Telman, but it isn't up to you what we do in Thulahn. You'll be there in a purely advisory capacity, understand? You might get bumped up to L-Two, but that still doesn't mean you're on the Board. Am I making myself clear?'

'Abundantly, Mr Dessous.'

'Right. So, we'll see you at Château d'Oex on Wednesday.'

'Ah, probably not.'

'What do you mean, "probably not"? I'm telling you to be there.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Dessous. I can't. I'll be in Thulahn.'

'Cancel it.'

'I can't, sir. I've already assured the Prince I'll be there,' I lied. 'He's expecting me. Could you possibly, like, un-order me to be in Switzerland? That way I won't be disobeying a direct command. There's some delicate negotiating to be done in Thulahn.'

'Jesus! Okay. Get your ass to Thulahn, Telman.'

'Thank you, Jeb.'

'Right, I gotta go, see how that idiot nephew of mine's doing.'

'Why, is there something wrong?'

'You haven't heard? He got shot.'

'What? Oh, my God. When? Where?'

'Yesterday, New York City, in the chest.'

'Is he all right?'

'No, he isn't all right! But at least he's not dead. Probably isn't going to die, either, just cost me a fortune in hospital bills.'

'What happened?'

'The posters.'

'The posters?'

'Yeah. I saw one. Can't believe I didn't spot it myself.'

'What? I don't understand.'

'You know that dumb-ass always wanted his name above the title?'

'Yes?'

'So the posters for his play say, "Dwight Litton's Best Shot".'

'Oh, good grief,' I said.

'Yeah. Some crazy asshole took it literally.'

I don't know. What is it that really matters to all of us? We're all the same species, the same assemblage of cells, with the same unarguable needs for food, water and shelter. The trouble is that after that it gets more complicated. Sex is the other big drive, of course, the one after the absolute necessities. You'd think we all need love, in some form, too, but maybe some people can get along without it. We are individuals, but we need to co-operate. We have family and friends, allies or at least accomplices. We always think we are right, and — search as I have — there is no evil under the sun that somebody somewhere won't argue is actually a good, no idiocy that hasn't got its perfectly serious defenders, and no tyrant, past or present — no matter how bloody — without some bunch of zealot schmucks to defend him or his reputation till the last breath in their bodies — or preferably somebody else's.